


In The Underground (or "The Life and Times of the Laid-back Larcenist")

by mathonwys



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: (briefly in chapter 2), Arson, Character Study, Communication Issues, Emetophobia, Gen, Light Fingers (Fallen London), Present Tense, Swearing, Temporary Character Death (Referenced), no beta we die like. uh. we just die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathonwys/pseuds/mathonwys
Summary: “I suck at this,” Mathonwy muttered from behind his mask.-When Mathonwy Freeman decided to make a name for himself in the Neath, he figured the best way to do it was to steal stuff and punch people. For some reason, it keeps ending in arson.(aka my roommate got me into Fallen London and i started writing fic about it instead of anything else i was working on for some reason)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	1. stare up at the ceiling

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The INCREDIBLE CASE of the BODY-SWAPPING SERIAL KILLER](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640808) by [iamsolarflare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsolarflare/pseuds/iamsolarflare), [ThaneZain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThaneZain/pseuds/ThaneZain). 



> i have no defense for myself. i was left unattended for too long
> 
> this was inspired by the entire Fallen London AU by Zain & Solar, but i don't think i can credit a series itself as inspiration? so instead i've credited the Big Fic because you should definitely go read it, it rules

when he woke up, it took him longer than he liked to remember he’s not in a coffin.

mathonwy lashed out an arm and swung an ineffective punch at thin air. no collision— he’s not trapped. he’s on the couch. anise’s couch. the window is still ajar from where he’d broken in (not broken glass, that’d be annoying to clean up and he’d hate to explain that to anise). the everlasting candle was burning on the end table where he’d left it. he’s not six feet under where no one would find him.

he kept his arm extended and stared at his fist with half-lidded eyes. his heavy coat was currently his pillow, so he could see the several faint scars from duels and squabbles and tripping on the flit’s walkways marking him. he could also see the bandages of a wound that just won’t heal. damnit, it’s bloody again. he’s gonna need to change that. mathonwy groaned and let his arm drop, then lay there listless for a moment before rolling off of the couch and meandering off into another room.

there. fresh bandages (that he’s gonna have to change by nightfall— it always starts getting bloody when he’s dozing off). lingering near mirrors is dangerous for him by now, but mathonwy checked himself over anyway. there’s a nasty scar on his forehead, a jagged starburst. he’s had that for a while now. if he parts his bangs just right, it’s hidden. anise hadn’t seen it yet, he figured. or, at least, if they did, they didn’t say anything. they knew what caused it, though—  _ everybody _ did, just like how everybody always managed to know about his less respectable exploits. friggin’ london.

mathonwy grabbed his coat and squeezed back out the window before his reflection could say anything to him.

time spent in the flit meant jumping from rooftop to rooftop was natural as walking now. mathonwy loped along as he pulled on his coat; behind him, the cluster of buildings that made up spite dwindled into nothingness as he approached the forgotten quarter. he tried not to think about spite much, these days. thinking about spite in general chained onto thinking about the orphanage chained onto thinking about waking up in a box chained into— well, it’s all nasty business.

somehow death had only made him more reckless. maybe because he knew what was on the other side, now— he’d already been dead, already been in jail, already been insane, already been to the tomb-colonies. he got careless far too often. yet, despite that, he still didn’t want to return to spite. cowardice, probably. he kept telling himself he’d go back when he was ready, that he had so much to do, but it had been— well, it had been some amount of time. treachery of clocks and all that.

mathonwy dropped down from the rooftops and wove his way along the bazaar side-streets. not the best idea to be spotted on the roof in areas like this, not when whispers of the redheaded revolutionary in a mask had started to spread. he wasn’t sure if anise knew about that, either. he knew they were a revolutionary, too, but would they think he was going too far? best to keep it on the down-low. best to avoid the topic. best to hope anise doesn’t see the bag he left by the window, near the candle.

entering the forgotten quarter always gave him chills. mathonwy gripped the fabric of his coat with one hand so he wouldn’t pick at his bandages. his base-camp was shabby, just like he was, but he had confidence anyway. so what if his publications— written in a similar lighthearted style to his poetry and songs— kept getting thrown into the fire? so what if no one took him seriously? so what if he was haunted by what he’d seen down here?

the luminous glass of his goggles cast a sickly light on his surroundings as he pulled them down over his eyes. one step closer to making his name. and… then what? back to stealing? back to charming his way through the court? back to wrestling animals? he’d been trying a lot of things, trying to find something he could settle into, and truth be told none of it really felt right.

god damnit, he was going to have to go back to spite, wasn’t he. he tried to not think about the distorted figures he’d seen in the labyrinth— not too far from the awful things he’d seen in the distant fog of the forgotten quarter.

he’d do it right, this time. he’d talk to anise first. let them know what exactly he’d been doing— because then maybe he wouldn’t be alone. then maybe he’d actually have a safety net to catch him if he fell.

(if he was truly honest with himself, he was scared to go back because he might wake up in that box again.)


	2. HEARTs Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this contains a lot of spoilers for Light Fingers! and was written while i was going through it, so if the pacing and vibes is kinda weird its because i was freaking out that i was gonna fail bc my stats suck lmao
> 
> i wrote this chapter while listening to songs off the Mad Rat Dead OST! which was very fun. mad rat dead is good, if youre okay with cartoony gore & are a fan of jazzy rhythm games you should check it out

Well, he’s been putting it off long enough. Mathonwy lingers near the crowded alleyways of Spite and pretends he’s ready for this. Maybe he can put this off another day? Maybe he can go back to chasing couriers in the Flit, that was fun. The Biblioklept probably still needs help with stuff, what with the state it’s been in. Hell, he can even go back to the Shuttered Palace and start back up on that song he’s been scrawling while drinking far too much coffee at Caligula’s. He could do literally anything but this.

Damnit, all he’d wanted was a jewel. He didn’t expect to get caught up in all this horror nonsense. If he saw Poor Edward again, he was going to bash his face in— 

( _ he’d stopped screaming for help. pain exploded between his eyes as he slammed his head against the unmoving wood. his blood was warm and wet, and even as he realized what he had to do he was still begging whatever was out there  _ **_no, don’t let this be it_ ** )

Mathonwy leans against a wall and hopes no one sees him looking like he’s about to puke. He so, so isn’t ready for this. He’s not ready to risk waking up in that coffin again. He’s not ready. He’s not.

He should write something to Anise before he goes. He can’t think of the words to say.

The light of the everlasting candle he’s gripping tight flickers from his hand’s shaking, but doesn’t go out. Mathonwy holds his head high and tries to look braver than he feels as the familiar architecture of Spite falls away into the nightmare labyrinth surrounding the Orphanage. He’s got a bad feeling. Too bad he can’t do anything about it.

* * *

The Orphanage is about as bad as he remembers. The disguise still doesn’t quite fit, and everything is far too white for what it contains. Mathonwy keeps his voice low and casual as he stops by some rooms, hides himself the best he can when he spots other orderlies, and is screaming in the back of his head the entire time.

He can’t resist being risky, though. Not if it means helping someone. He’s grabbed—  _ oh, fuck, this is it _ — but worms his way out and escapes down the halls, doors blurring past him, until he’s left the doctors behind. Shit, they know he’s here now. He sits in a corner (white like everything else, there’s no shadows here for him to hide in) and tries not to panic. Keyword here is “tries”, because he’s definitely hyperventilating now.

He can’t do this. They’re going to find him, and he’s going to wake up in a box, and he’s going to die again. He should’ve told Anise. He should’ve told  _ anyone _ what he was doing. There’s no safety net, nothing to catch him if he falls, and if he falls he’s going to die. And, as it turns out,  _ he’s still very afraid of dying. _

Mathonwy still manages to bluff his way through, though. He still manages to steady himself enough to go down in the basement, to blend in and bribe his way through until he’s staring up at the cradle with wide, terrified eyes. He’s come to learn there’s a lot of weird shit in Fallen London. He’s still not totally ready to see some kind of… what is this, a Zee-beast? Whatever it is, it’s giving him the creeps, and when the guard shoves him away he doesn’t protest.

If anybody notices how many times he’s having to sit down and calm himself, they thankfully don’t say anything. He’s being suspicious as all hell, he knows this, and he knows what’s going to happen if he gets caught, so  _ please please don’t get caught _ . He knows he can back out at any time, that if he just walks with purpose to the exit no one’s going to stop him, they’re gonna think he’s just clocking out or whatever, but he can’t. He needs to stay until this is done. Oh, god, he hates that.

His heartbeat is erratic when he reaches the records office. Even if he doesn’t get killed, he’s sure he’s losing years off his life just by being here. Still, he charms his way through— turns out all that nonsense in Veilgarden was good for something— and then he’s free to leaf through the files.

Mathonwy feels like he’s going to be sick. There’s way more information in here than he ever needed to know. Once he’s out of here— once he and the music-hall singer and her sister are out of here— he’s going to rally up some support and burn this place to the ground.

_ Why does it always come back around to love? _ The Orphanage is about studying all-consuming love. The warning of being too close to the Bazaar is  _ don’t fall in love _ . Love stories are worth more than anything he’s ever written. All of this mess started because— his memory’s a bit fuzzy on this part, blunt head trauma does that to you— the singer’s sister fell in love.

He finds the room numbers he needs. He waves goodbye to the Registrar. He braces himself for whatever he’s going to find when he walks through the door to Room 316.

Mathonwy is absolutely not prepared. At least the singer is polite enough to look away when he pukes in a corner.

The vial of tea-leaves is half-forgotten in his pack, but when the singer mentions it he tears through his supplies like a man possessed. Shards of glim, the revolutionary pin, the everlasting candle, several shiny rocks, a few bottles of souls— there! His hands are still shaky when he pulls the bottle of tea leaves out, but he gives the singer a lopsided borderline-manic grin.

“Listen,” he says with a wild light in his eye. “I’ve got keys— we can go from the roof. We can leave! And— after— I give her this, we leave, and I’ll burn it.” His grin widens. “I’ll just burn this whole fucking place down.”

She gives his harsh language a pass for now. “And what about the people?” she presses. “The Orphanage has hundreds of patients like my sister. They’re not going to be able to escape with us once the fire starts.” Mathonwy’s grin fades.

“I…” He puts a hand to his mouth and holds up a finger as he collects his thoughts. He’s going to kill a  _ lot _ of people. A lot of innocents. But— he’s seen them as he’s slipped through the Orphanage. They’re all like her sister: clinging desperately to whatever the Orphanage told them to, regardless if it hurt them or not. The files had talked about the experimentation with separating them from it, where they’d end up insane or dead or something worse. Would he even be able to help? Would they even want to escape? What lives would they lead, outside of the Orphanage, tangled up in a red string someone else had tied for them?

God, he wishes someone else was here to tell him what he should do. It’s just him, though. Anise isn’t here, the Biblioklept isn’t here, neither is any of the other people he’s grown close to over the course of his stay in London. For a moment he’s back in the Clay Quarters, looking at the terrified eyes of the Comtessa that he keeps seeing in his dreams, and then he’s looking at the singer and her sister and he has an awful, awful choice to make.

“They’re… gonna be hurtin’ either way,” he croaks out. “If I don’t— are they gonna be happy? And, and more’n more people are gonna get pulled in here and have the same shit done to ‘em.” His hands are sweaty under his gloves. His gaze trails to the flickering light of the everlasting candle. “I gotta. I’m sorry.”

The fire spreads quickly as they race to the roof. There’s several close calls— Mathonwy’s not the best runner, and they’re also tugging a heavily pregnant woman along— and the screams of the patients chase them all the way up to the roof where the dirigible is waiting. Mathonwy hesitates for a moment, looking out at the glittering lights of the city, before he helps the sister up and turns to grab the singer.

Edward gets her first. Mathonwy’s face hardens. There’s a flicker of phantom pain between his eyes, and then Mathonwy is charging across with a primal roar. He lets go of the singer in surprise right before Mathonwy punches him in the face as hard as he can. Edward’s knocked sprawling, and Mathonwy has a faint memory of one of the rooms he passed through on his exploration—  _ gas pipes _ — before an explosion rocks the building and he’s sent tumbling head-over-heels over the edge.

There’s a heart-pounding moment where he’s weightless in the air, and then his hand catches one of the loose ropes dangling from the dirigible. He clings to it like a lifeline, fully aware of the streets now far, far below; heartbeat in his ears, drowning out the roar of the fire and the screams and crying and general chaos of a building ablaze, Mathonwy hauls himself up one hand after another. The Orphanage fades out of sight, a bonfire in the gloomy darkness of Fallen London, and Mathonwy manages to last until he carries the singer’s sister to a safehouse before he passes out on the ground.


	3. lighting up the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more character study stuff! because that's just what i keep drifting to, i guess. theres a lot of fics i dont post bc theyre just in-character rambling zdshgfkjghkfdg OH WELL

This time, when the Flit ignites, it’s not an accident.

He’s gaining a reputation for firestarting, now. The other revolutionaries don’t mind— they encourage it. Burn it down, blow it up, don’t leave anything remaining. Tear down everything to build anew, free of the Masters and the Neath and everything they fight against. Mathonwy kept that in mind as he perched on the edge of a roof and watched the fire spread across the planks and ropes making up the Flit overhead.

He felt a little bad about it. It wasn’t supposed to be a fight. It’d been a clandestine meeting, Mathonwy and a couple others wearing the red pins and discussing the Incident in Spite (Mathonwy pretended he didn’t know anything about it when asked), and then someone had stumbled upon them and raised a panic. One of the louder and angrier revolutionaries threw the first punch, and then everything blurred together and ended in fire.

“I suck at this,” Mathonwy muttered from behind his mask. He itched at the bandages on his arm, then adjusted his cloak before swinging down off the roof and clambering down unsteady footholds before he was back down on the ground. He’d say he’s not sure when all this started, but then he’d be lying. He remembered it clear: his benefactor, an anarchist that had taken him under his wing not long after he’d escaped New Newgate, dead at his hands before he could become a Jack. After that, he kept finding reasons to support the cause.

Better put space between him and the Flit. Mathonwy avoided the crowds of people reacting to the blaze; he stuck to the shadows, watched constables rush past as they tried to manage the situation, and was quietly thankful that he’d thought to make the mask in the first place. Like hell was he going back to jail.

Once he felt like he was in the clear, Mathonwy dropped the duffel bag he’d been carrying and rummaged through it. He’d gotten used to changing outfits quickly— mask off, cloak off, shed the sweater he’d been wearing over his blouse, bandana on, goggles on, gloves on over the bandages, swap boots in case they found his footprints. He moved to put the mask in the bag, then paused and turned it over in his hands. It wasn’t in the best of shape. The paint was flaking (should’ve gotten better quality, but he’d been in a hurry and short on echoes), and it’d had gotten cracked from a couple close calls (once an explosion, once him tripping and tumbling off the Flit). He frowned. It had the downside of making him  _ too _ recognizable: people could spot him now, and if anyone found his mask while he was in civilian gear he was surely done for.

He was careful to tuck it out of sight between layers of clothing in his bag before shouldering it. Right, he needed to go to Wolfstack, didn’t he? Mathonwy shook his head to clear it. Anise wouldn’t notice him gone if he was careful, and they hadn’t been near the Flit lately anyway what with the railroad and all. If they asked, he could just say he was at Wolfstack the whole time hunting down beasties for the Labyrinth of Tigers. He was pretty good at it, he liked to think, even though the various nicks and scratches he kept coming home with said otherwise. Ah well. He was gonna look like a mess no matter what.

Besides, the good side of being awful at keeping himself intact and having a reputation for doing stupid stunts was that if he got himself hurt doing revolutionary stuff he could just say he was dueling or wrestling dangerous animals and that’d give him a pass.

Right. Wolfstack. Mathonwy blended in with the other hunters, took notes on where to go and how to capture, and had a few hours of not being mauled. The fire in the Flit fell out of his mind before too long, and he only remembered it once someone clapped him on the shoulder and whispered to him that he’d done a good job.  _ You have to stick with your own, _ they said.  _ Everyone’s against us, so we have each other. _

Those words lingered in his mind as he headed home. The door opened after he slammed his shoulder into it (Anise was right, it  _ did _ stick), and he trudged inside before dropping his bag in what he’d claimed as “his corner”. Sure, yeah, he always stuck up for who he was with— revolutionaries, urchins, fellow criminals— but would everybody else around him understand or would they turn him in? He doubted it. Anise had no love for the Masters, and neither did the Biblioklept, but beyond that he had no idea. What would happen when he got stuck choosing between the cause and his friends?

Mathonwy sat down on the floor and hunched over. Ugh, he liked it better before things were complicated. Living a double life had sounded cool at first, but now it was just exhausting and stressful. He was halfway ready to just drop in the next time Anise was tutoring Starseeker in full revolutionary gear and take his mask off all ‘Surprise!’, although that was likely to get him punched in the face.


End file.
